It’s early and the top of the oak wet with dew is swaying, calling me as it did when I was a boy, and the birds, singing before we wake, are the hearts of those who’ve suffered, reborn as soft things that sit in trees.
As for me, I’ve become a hollow bone through which things long needing to be said are sung, though I often don’t know what they mean.
I have been carved out, one heartache at a time, to make a clear sound. I don’t cite this as a principle, just what happened to me.
I lean my head to the wind and my heart sings. Then I eat the song.